“Bad. Up nearly all night with a couple of sick people, and I was at last just sinking into a pleasant doze when those wretched bugles began to ring out. All your doing.”
“My doing, sir?”
“Yes—upsetting our regular routine. It will be just as I expected when the Major arranged for tins absurdity. As if Her Majesty couldn’t have a birthday without everybody going mad with a desire to get sunstroke.”
“Have some breakfast, sir,” said Archie quietly. “You will feel better then.”
“Better, sir? Bah! Nothing the matter with me now. Eh, what? Is the coffee ready? Can’t be. These princes and potentates haven’t all come in yet, and I suppose we shall have to wait for them.”
“No, you won’t, sir. Captain Down and some more of us who will have to be on duty have got a snug corner to ourselves, and we are going to have a snatch meal before going out.”
“Oh,” said the Doctor in a more mollified tone. “Then there is somebody here blessed with brains! Who was it—Down?”
“No, sir; if I must confess,” cried Archie, “it was I.”
“Oh,” said the Doctor. “Then you must have been thinking of number one, sir.”
“No, Doctor. My fellow, Peter Pegg, got me a cup of coffee an hour ago.”